“What I aim to show is that artistic practice turning to philosophy does not have to do with a borrowing of philosophical concepts or ideas, or with philosophical writing. Instead, I am interested in work that operates itself as philosophy; in other words, work that borrows something of philosophy’s nature as a specific kind of practice, of thinking and of elaborating such thinking for another. In this way, I would argue, not only does dance exercise the philosophical, but it is allowed to start discovering and generating original modes of thought from within its own complex economy of practice.”
Efrosini Protopapa
Let’s begin the performance. I go up on the stage.
This is my hand here.
Look at it.
I am thinking simultaneously why am I starting this way?
As if it’s all about me,
as if I raise my hand to speak,
as when they call out my name,
like when I vote in an assembly.
But how do I raise my hand?
Like when I give it to greet someone?
But when I raise it in that way there is always someone in front of me,
and there is also a hesitation, how will my hand feel, will it have vigor in the hand-shake? Will I balance the power of the other hand?
If I raise it like this?
Like when I open my palm to receive the change from the supermarket’s cashier.
I look at my hand.
I don’t recognize it,
if I want to be honest, I’ m surprised.
Is this really my hand? Is this only it?
Am I doomed to be with it?
Can I change it?
One day I will meet someone who will tell me “show me your hand and I will tell you what you are”.
But how my whole life can be revealed by my hand, I will wonder?
Ah! He will reply “our hands are our deeds”.
I look at my hand.
This is my hand.
When I say “I look at my hand” what do you do? Do you look at your hand or at my hand or do you look at me looking at my hand?
Look at your hand; where is it, what stories does it tell you?
I look at my own hand.
The truth is that I feel it weak, there is always a weak spot here in the joint, that I try when I push it, not to betray me.
I hate it is so weak; is that what prevented me, prevented me? Me or the rest of my body to fulfill all its dreams or my dreams?
And above all, does it represent me? What if I kill someone?
I will need to cut it so they won’t recognize me, I will be executed but they will preserve it to find out who I am.
So, is my hand me?
I hate it, I have tried to train it, but it was lazy, in contrast to my mind and soul. Eventually I was beaten, it won, and I didn’t train it, I am my hand.
I have never clenched my fist; like this.
My eye follows it wherever it goes. Where does it go? Can I surprise my eye? To go faster or somewhere to surprise me?
Can I surpass my mind?
Can my hand surpass my mind?
Can I be me without my mind?
We say my hand as if it were something foreign, we don’t say I am a hand.
How can I feel my hand from within?
How do I know it is mine?
Where does it end what I call my hand and where I begin?
How do I know it’s me?
From the senses it gets?
So, if I shake it fast, I feel the air and if I squize it I feel the blood.
I act, therefore I am?
If I touch another part of my body with my hand, what do I feel? What it touches or what is being touched? I touch or I am being touched?
Am I my hand? Am I a hand? Am I?
I look at my hand.
Am I looking at it? Do I see it or do I feel it?
Why when I don’t look at it, I feel it more me?
What do my eyes have? The vision? Does the look alienate us?
If I shake my hand and let it relax, it will drag the rest of my body.
Therefore, my hand proves it has a relation with the rest of the body.
This, here, is my hand.
The performance started with me saying this is my hand and asking you to look at it.
Is my hand still the same since the beginning? Are you watching it in the same way? Do you think the same? But I started in the exact same way.
My hand touches.
What does this mean?
Can my hand read?
Is it a “tactile” reading, to such an extent that the texture approaches the touch safely, touching the not-yet-spoken?
This is my hand here.
Genetically it is the same as my mother’s hand.
Is it my mother’s hand, is it hers or also mine?
My hand has 5 fingers like yours, it has my story, my nails can talk about my anxieties, the jobs I have done, but it cannot tell my whole life.
This is my hand.
How different it is from yours.
I wonder how are the hands of a politician when he lies?
Of a policeman when he takes his truncheon to hit a Syrian refugee?
Of the journalist that writes about the suppression of terrorism?
Of a prime minister eating his breakfast watching riots on the TV?
I wonder is there a hand in ignorance?
Can the hands be guilty?
Since they have their own lives, can they resist their thoughts?
I clench my hand in a fist again.
Try to do it too.
Look at it, does it seem unfamiliar?
Where does my hand end? Where does my body begin, where do I begin?
Where am I ending?
Who takes charge of showing his hand? Who dares to show his hand?
Who has the power to show his hand?
And how do you get this power?
Thoughts from:
- Alain Badiou, Being and Event (2005)
- René Descartes, Meditations on First Philosophy (1641)
- Jenny Bunker; Anna Pakes; Bonnie Rowell, Thinking through dance: the philosophy of dance through performance and practices (2013)
- Efrosini Protopapa, Choreography as philosophy, or exercising thought in performance (2013)












